Vindictive
by Haikoui
Summary: After a long moment of staring at the poisonous berries, there is a breeze from behind him and he turns to see Plutarch Heavensbee. "He said you had an unfortunate sentimental streak," says Plutarch, "but what's unfortunate for him is what we care about most. We're taking you to Thirteen, Crane." Senekiss. M for later chapters, including language, gore, and possible sexual content.
1. Prologue

**Title: **Vindictive

**Author: **Haikoui

**Summary: **He sees the berries in front of him, gleaming with death itself under the dim lighting of the room in which he is held captive. Yet, after a long moment of staring at the poisonous berries and before he can truly gather his courage to follow through with what is inexplicably Snow's intention, there is a breeze from behind him and he turns to see Plutarch Heavensbee. "He said you had an unfortunate sentimental streak," says Plutarch, "but what's unfortunate for him is what we care about most. We're taking you to Thirteen, Crane." Senekiss.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy or any of its characters. If I did, I would probably keep nearly everyone alive in Mockingjay. Oh well.

* * *

**Prologue**

How long has it been? He's forgotten the feeling of dread, of being surrounded by Peacekeepers armed to the teeth.

Truth be told, he's been ready for this. The moment he went through with the rule change, overseeing the blood-ridden, wooded arena, he knew it. And now, he's heading straight for it. Straight into the ready jaws of Hell.

He wonders how it'll happen. Perhaps he will be beheaded by one of Snow's favorite bloodied axes that hang lovingly in the lobby of the Capitol's Law Building. Perhaps he will be thrown into a pit of fire and perhaps his burnt corpse will be delivered within a decorative parcel to District Twelve. Perhaps he will be fed to the muttations that tore apart the District Two boy – Cato, was it? Yes, Cato – and perhaps his remains will be ground and used as scented fertilizer for Snow's beds of roses.

Then again, any one of those choices would make Snow appear much more gracious than what the man is in reality.

Even so, he decides he would prefer a hanging. He is too much of a coward to die any other way.

The Peacekeepers drop him off at a set of heavy metal double doors, opening them silently, not having to tell him to move inside. He does so not ungracefully, but his steps are heavier now, his feet leaded and slow. Behind him, the doors click shut. He checks to see if they are truly locked, knowing it is useless, because of course, the doors do not yield.

The room is empty and cold. In the middle of it, a table stands firmly on the glossy wooden floor, a bowl resting on top of it with some sort of edible delicacy waiting in its depths. He moves toward it, cautious and calculating, and forces himself not to react physically in any way possible.

He sees the berries in front of him, gleaming with death itself under the dim lighting of the room in which he is held captive. There is a brief moment of respite as he contemplates the relief he might achieve if he subjects himself to the fate held within the glass bowl.

He had had everything in his life. He had known that his life would have been taken if he allowed two victors. And still he had gone through with it. He doesn't know why he had done what he did and it is clear he will never know – he can wait in this room and starve to death, but he will never be let out until his rotting body reeks of the same rancid scent of the children he had sent to die, or he can choose to die "willingly" and to "prove that he had regretted his actions" to Snow.

Yet, after a long moment of staring at the poisonous berries and before he can truly gather his courage to follow through with what is inexplicably Snow's intention, there is a breeze from behind him and he turns to see Plutarch Heavensbee beckoning him toward the now-open doors.

Astounded, his hand drops from over the berries.

"He said you had an unfortunate sentimental streak," says Plutarch hurriedly, "but what's unfortunate for him is what we care about most. We're taking you to Thirteen, Crane."

"Thirteen – ?"

"No time for questions," says Plutarch. "I don't want to have to knock you unconscious and drag you out of here!"

In a daze, he crosses the room and allows Plutarch to pull him out of the threshold of his cell. The Peacekeepers who had escorted him to the room are lying on the ground, out cold, and Plutarch leads him the opposite direction of which he had come.

"Plutarch – wait – " He tries to gather his bearings, stumbling after his subordinate Gamemaker. He is rarely so caught off guard, but he can hardly understand the turn of events. "What is going on – ?"

"Don't say a word, Seneca! We're getting you out of here!"

He feels that around every corner, Snow himself will appear and shoot him down on the spot. Somehow Plutarch – heaven forbid he lose this chance now, whatever this chance is – had managed to find him and currently has something planned for him away from the Capitol, in – in Thirteen –

But he cannot afford to think on that now. There are Peacekeepers ahead, their weapons up at the ready, and Plutarch freezes. Seneca nearly trips over in his haste.

"Gamemaker Heavensbee?" says a Peacekeeper incredulously.

"Oh, yes, yes, Peacekeeper, please let us through, Gamemaker Crane has an important meeting to attend."

"I had believed that Gamemaker Crane had been detained," says the same Peacekeeper, training his weapon on Seneca.

The other Peacekeepers, faces masked from view, follow his actions and keep their weapons aimed at Seneca and Plutarch.

"Really?" says Plutarch distractedly. Seneca allows himself to survey his location - there are various Peacekeepers he cannot identify and he begins to feel at a loss. He will surely be caught and executed for this, if he had been doubting anything before.

"Yes," the Peacekeeper insists. "President Snow intended on delivering his execution."

"That's a shame," says Plutarch.

All at once, the rest of the Peacekeepers turn swiftly and focus their weapons on the single speaker, who drops his weapon in shock. "W - what's – "

One of the other Peacekeepers knocks him out, and the first blacks out on to the ground. The second Peacekeeper looks at Plutarch expectantly.

"You are something else entirely," says Plutarch, pulling Seneca along behind him. The rest of the Peacekeepers split and allow them to pass. One calls out, "Twelve is waiting at the door."

While Plutarch only sends over a small hand signal to acknowledge the Peacekeeper, Seneca looks behind him and sees the Peacekeepers crowd around the one lying on the tiled sterile floor. One carefully injects some clear substance into the unconscious Peacekeeper and Seneca forces himself to look forward and see where Plutarch is leading him.

Plutarch comes across one more masked Peacekeeper by a well secured door. Seneca prepares himself for another confrontation but the Peacekeeper pulls off his helmet instead, and in front of them both is Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve.

Though he is normally a well spoken man, Seneca sputters at the sight of the victor. Haymitch rolls his eyes at him and ushers both him and Plutarch through the door after swiping a Peacekeeper's card through the security check.

"Don't know why you had to get this guy, Heavensbee," says Haymitch irately.

"The man gave our Mockingjay a chance. He'll be essential in helping us with whatever Snow's planning for the Quarter Quell next year."

"Will someonetell me what's going on?" Seneca demands, his confusion waning ever so slightly and allowing for a superior irritation to take its place. "Whatever's happening, I wasn't informed of it."

"I wonder why," mutters Haymitch, shutting the door behind them.

"Let's _not_ become all flustered over this, please," says Plutarch. They approach a sleek hovercraft (one Seneca has seen before that are always operated by licensed Capitol pilots) with several Peacekeepers with their helmets removed waiting in front of wide open doors.

"Head Gamemaker Crane," says one of the Peacekeepers, nodding his head politely.

Seneca regards him with wide eyes. "Someone _please_ let me know what is going on."

"Once we're in the air, it'll be easier to do," says a different Peacekeeper. He opens the hovercraft's door. "For now, we have to get you out of here. We need your help in coordinating the 75th Hunger Games."

He is nearly pushed into the hovercraft by Haymitch and as he tumbles into one of the chairs and is buckled in, he looks at Plutarch in disbelief. "Is there a coup? Why are you planning something against the Capitol? Have you all gone mad?"

"I _told_ you you shouldn't have picked him up," Haymitch says bitterly as the door to the hovercraft shuts with a click.

"Oh, Seneca," sighs Plutarch. "We're doing this for the good of Panem."

"The good of Panem?" says Seneca, the shock of it wearing off. What would President Snow say about all of this? He would execute _all _of them. This would fail, no doubt. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"Seneca, I had thought you would understand," says Plutarch pleadingly.

"Understand? Understand _what,_ exactly? I was giving the audience a _show._That's what they asked for. That's what they wanted." That _was_ what they'd wanted, right? "Let me out."

"You're being unreasonable, Seneca," Plutarch tells him.

"I am not being unreasonable, _Gamemaker,_" Seneca spits out. "I am looking out for our heads."

"Your head was as good as fed to the Capitol on a silver platter anyway," Haymitch says uninterestedly. He taps on the door to the control panel of the hovercraft and motions to the Peacekeeper pilot to take off before turning back to Seneca. "Let's face it, Crane. The second you created and enforced the rule change for both Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark to live, you were sent to the hangman."

Haymitch is right, but Seneca so despises the ragged looking man at the moment that he refuses to give him the pleasure of admitting that knowledge. "That was what the people wanted. I gave them what they wanted!"

"At the expense of your life," says Haymitch. "Yes. Yes, good idea. You had an ulterior motive, Crane, but I won't make you face it just yet. You'll learn it in good time."

The hovercraft begins to lift off of the floor. The Peacekeepers outside of the craft give a salute and leave before they can be blown away.

"You _are _with us," says Plutarch, nodding. "You'll see."

Seneca draws a hand over his eyes and exhales heavily in response. He is sorely confused and at a loss as to what to do - he's thankful for his life at the moment, but he's also greatly distressed over the thought of this rebellion and the idea that a massive organization of rebels operating _within the Capitol _is preparing to strike and inevitably alter history, using Katniss Everdeen as its symbol.

He shuts his eyes and the screams of children fill his ears.

Yes, he saved Katniss Everdeen – and Peeta Mellark – for a reason.

He sighs again, opens his eyes, and looks out the window as the craft lifts above the Capitol and flies away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Plutarch busy himself with holotelevision communications, presumably other Peacekeepers maintaining a profile back at the Capitol.

"So what's my death story?" Seneca asks quietly.

Plutarch is otherwise occupied so Haymitch answers in his stead. "You ingested the nightlock. Peacekeepers burned your body by Snow's orders, which was suggested by Heavensbee. Any security cameras that captured anything were maintained by Peacekeepers under Heavensbee's orders and are being edited right now."

"As we speak," Plutarch expands.

"You've thought this out," says Seneca.

"Apparently you're too valuable to let go," Haymitch adds.

"After you made the rule change, we knew you had to be saved," Plutarch tacks on.

"Yeah. Most of us," says Haymitch.

Plutarch ignores him and shuts off the holotelevision. "We need your help, Seneca. I'm sorry to say this to a friend but even if you don't wish to go through with this, we're going to have you go through with this anyway."

Seneca remains quiet for a moment, contemplating. He's gathered his wits about him by now and his near death experience has faded away somewhat. Though he is normally never taken by surprise, the information about the hidden organization still remains astounding and puzzling to him.

"Are you with us, Seneca?" asks Plutarch after a minute.

"Or do we have to do this with you kicking and screaming along the way?" adds Haymitch.

Seneca looks at the two of them and then casts his eyes on the Peacekeepers in the hovercraft's control panel. He shuts his eyes again.

Screaming. Three years' worth of children screaming under his time and command as Head Gamemaker fill his ears once more.

He opens his eyes and nods.

* * *

**I've been heavily invested within the Hunger Games fandom ever since its inception, and don't let this story fool you about what I ship – Senekiss (Seneca/Katniss) is my guilty pleasure. However, I am and always will be a Peeta/Katniss fan. **

**I hope you all will review and will enjoy this story. This is my first fic in this fandom so I hope you all will welcome me with open arms! **


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games trilogy does not belong to me and neither does its characters. Sorry! Ha.

**Note: **"Cajsa" is pronounced as "Kaisa." It's a feminine Swedish name but… eh.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

He is taken to an empty white room the second the hovercraft lands; he is stripped of all his clothes and is immediately submerged in a tasteless, odorless foggy white gas. He had been through this before during his initiation as a Gamemaker, but the feeling of it clouds around him and at once, he feels vulnerable.

"Please remain still," comes a friendly female voice from an unidentifiable source somewhere in the room. "You will now be cleansed of any previous traces of people and environments."

There is a pause as the gas drifts around Seneca lazily, before a soft hum comes from above him. The gas begins to whirl smoothly around his body.

"Your new title is _Senoa Cajsa Crons, Game Designer," _says the contented voice. "You will be acknowledged as _Designer Cajsa Crons."_

Seneca ponders the name for a small while. It is a name he can stick to, and he is thankful to Plutarch for allowing him a name that is familiar to him.

_Cajsa_ is an interesting choice to be referred to as, though. He had thought it was a name that had died off long ago during the war – the name is mentioned in passing within the older textbooks, referencing several old district rebels, but it is also considered a sort of taboo name in Panem.

Seneca himself doesn't have a middle name. He's always been Seneca Crane. He realizes, with a small sense of finality, that his old life is gone. He will most likely never again be called _Gamemaker Crane, _or even _Seneca_.

He does, however, appreciate the small feeling of his old life that he is still able to maintain. His old childhood nickname. Sen. The new force he works for is gracious enough to allow him that one luxury of his past life.

Although, he notes as the gas around him begins to evaporate, it seems as though he will be referred to as Cajsa, even though it is supposedly his middle name.

"Designer Crons," says another voice – male and authoritative, this time – from his right. "Exit through the gate highlighted silver."

Seneca does as he is told, deciding he doesn't mind the job title as much as he's predicted. It reminds him of the years he'd spent as a regular Gamemaker, making the designs and concepts of the themes to be utilized within each of the Games he'd worked for.

_Like those muttations,_ says a voice in his head viciously.

Seneca shakes his head slightly; he'd lived comfortably with the Games as part of his adult life and there is no reason to gain a conscience about past Games now.

He notices that he had been following the instructions spoken to him by the anonymous male and female voices blindly. He had been clothed and shaved, and his hair had been cut to a short, dark crop. The voices had taken him down a sterile white-walled hallway with bland white tiles leading to a simple door.

Used to handle-free doors opening for him at once back at the Capitol, he is lost as to what to do at first. Then, with a small glance around him, he grips the doorknob and twists. The door yields to him easily, and Seneca crosses through the threshold to enter a much livelier room, with glass windows that operate much as his did back in his penthouse at the Capitol. The images displayed by the windows fade into each other and morph gracefully from one view to the next; he sees one image of a foggy, vine-overtaken path slowly transcend to a clean cobblestone walkway disappearing into a sunset, and wonders where he is and why he has been brought here.

"Designer Cajsa Crons," says a steely voice from behind him.

Seneca turns to see a woman who seems to epitomize the meaning of the word "grey." Her lips are set in a hard line and her eyes radiate like metal from where she stands. Her hair is silver and perfect, as though meant to replicate a short armored cap around her mind. Immediately, Seneca knows she is not to be interfered with – she is clearly the one in power.

He stays where he is, regarding her cautiously, but he still allows himself to nod politely in her direction.

She crosses over to him with quickly clacking heels, though he barely comprehends the motion. It is as though he'd blinked and she'd suddenly appeared a foot from his face. "I am President Alma Coin. Now, let's get straight to it, shall we?"

The smooth, polished floor to his right opens up and two chairs ascend for them to sit upon. She motions for him to have a seat, and he does so slowly, watching Coin as she settles into the one opposite from him and folds her hands neatly in her lap.

"I will admit it," says Coin. "I do not want you here."

_That makes two of us,_ he attempts to say, but he knows it isn't all that true.

"Your reputation is infamous within the Districts," she continues coldly. "Especially in Thirteen."

She waits, but Seneca can find nothing to say back to her. He simply watches her indifferently, waiting for her to finish.

Coin seems to accept the fact that he doesn't want to say anything. She sits straight and poised to move if he decides to act unpredictably. "However, your comrade Plutarch Heavensbee is intent on protecting your life. For what reason, I do not know." She pauses and watches him coolly, and after a second or two, she leans forward ever so slightly and says, "Consider yourself lucky, _Crane._"

He suspects that this is the last time he will hear his real name for a while.

* * *

"Here is your room, Designer," says his guide. Seneca looks at the door and sees the number engraved on a small plaque nailed on the front: 74K.

"Thank you," he says, letting the foreign words take place on his tongue. "But if I may – I have one question. What is the letter for?"

"Special division," says the guide. "You're working with other designers within Head Gamemaker Heavensbee's force to help Katniss Everdeen."

Seneca feels his breath catch slightly at the mention of his previous title, but he figures it is best if Heavensbee directs the Games if he is planning something this grand scale. "Is that what the K is for?"

The guide nods. He seems reluctant to reveal anything else, but he explains a little more. "District Twelve is vital to the success of President Coin's plans, so there is also a force dedicated to aid Peeta Mellark, as well. They are distinguished with the letter P."

Seneca ponders this for a few seconds before giving the guide a curt nod. The guide excuses himself then, and Seneca is left at his door on his own, staring at the K.

He wonders vaguely why he is always appointed to work in her favor. At first, during the games, he had been captivated by her embodiment of the silent, nearly unseen hatred of the Games that she participated in. The arrow to the apple had intrigued him rather than anger him, and he had spent a long while contemplating if he should honor her with a high score for her nerve, or a low one to hide her and to protect her life from the other tributes.

"She deserves a zero for what she did," many of the other Gamemakers had spat at him in distaste. "She shot an arrow at your head!"

"No," said some of the others. "Give her a high score. The other tributes can take care of her then. She won't survive with everyone against her – no one does."

The more he thought about it after her daring stunt, the more he was inclined to give her attention. For what, he didn't know, but he wanted Panem to see her spirit. Even if the public couldn't know what she did to the Gamemakers, they would be left to imagine her actions, making her a nearly intangible tribute that stood over the rest, causing the nation to watch her with a bated breath.

And he knew she was strong. She had experience (acquired from where, he wasn't sure) and she had a drive for something larger that no one else seemed to hold. It helped greatly that the boy from Twelve, Peeta Mellark, was seemingly devoted to her. The adoration in his eyes – even through the lenses of the hidden cameras within the forest – was true, and Seneca had known that the love stricken boy would do anything to protect her.

So he gave her the eleven. It was better to give her the attention. He knew she would be able to live for a while despite the promised torture the other tributes pledged on her through their angry glares.

Now, while looking at the K next to the number – he notices how well they've chosen his room, based on the fact that the most recent Games he'd conducted were the 74th Games – he's thankful to be here. He opens the door with the key allotted to him earlier by the guide and looks around.

It isn't much compared to his penthouse back in the Capitol. In fact, juxtaposed with that, it's nothing at all. But it _is_ a rather spacious room, and there is more intended as luxury rather than necessity. There is a large desk and easel on the far wall – which, to his pleasure, is an impressive glass replica of one of the walls back in the room in which he had met President Coin – and one half of the desk operates by touch.

The rest of the room is standard. There is a large bed protruding from the wall, and the sheets are colored red and black, clearly prepared for his arrival. A holotelevision is set on the gleaming, polished oak dresser across the bed, and beside that is a smooth door leading to what he presumes is the small, compact restroom. There is no kitchen; clearly, everyone is to be together for meals. Seneca takes note of the name plate sitting at his desk, as well: _S. Cajsa Crons. _

He picks it up and reads the smaller print under his name. _Game Designer Director._

_Well, _he thinks, somewhat amused, _they've already promoted me._

There is a knock on the door and he puts the name plate back on the table, padding toward the door to open it. When he does, he sees his guide waiting outside with a metal tray of what looks like medicinal items.

"Specially delivered by President Coin, Designer," says his guide.

Seneca eyes the tray and looks back up at his guide. "And what exactly is so special about this?"

"These are grey optical iris drops," says his guide, unfazed by Seneca's suspicious tone. "One drop daily, in the morning, will change your iris to a certain shade of grey in order to maintain your identity as Cajsa Crons."

Inwardly, he wonders if the drops are grey in order to imitate Coin's appearance. Seneca takes the tray but doesn't move to dismiss him. "Do you know my real identity?" he questions.

His guide shakes his head.

"Ah." Seneca waits for a moment, then asks, "What is your name?"

For a moment, his guide looks unsure. Then he relaxes. "Quinn Diamond."

He ponders over this for a small while. Behind him, in his room, he can hear a soft tick sound as each second clocked by. "Where were you born?"

"I'm not allowed to say, Designer," says his guide, Quinn.

Seneca doesn't know why he's asking, but he figures he might as well become accustomed to his surroundings and comrades. "Let me guess."

Quinn remains quiet, so Seneca takes that as permission to continue. "Were you born in the Capitol?"

His guide's lips quirk upward, but he shakes his head.

"Here in Thirteen, then."

Quinn shakes his head again. "Not from the Districts."

Puzzled slightly, Seneca turns and places the tray of eye drops on a side table by the door. "So where are you from?"

"I told you, Designer," says Quinn. "I'm not allowed to say."

Seneca thinks back hard on his textbooks from his school days back in the capitol. There was never any subject that pertained to anything outside of what was significant to Panem. But he wonders to the "other nations" – mentioned very briefly in one of his final school years – that kept out of the civil war back so many years ago. "Were you born overseas?" he asks his guide quietly.

Quinn nods.

"I don't know the names of those nations," admits Seneca. It is unlike him to lack knowledge about Panem's affairs. "I'm sorry. We never learned about them."

"Yes," says Quinn. "We learn much more about Panem than Panem does about us." He pauses, hesitating, then adds, "I was born in what is called the United Kingdom, which is made up of many different, smaller nations. It spans over twice the size of Panem. It used to be much smaller, but as Panem was founded, the United Kingdom expanded."

Seneca had never heard of the United Kingdom, and he wonders what else the Capitol kept from the nation. The textbooks he'd read from spoke solely of Panem's beginnings, not the end of the empire – or whatever it had been – that had thrived before it. Panem's history spanned for centuries. Every now and then the textbooks described rebellions – an attempt to "return to the dark ages of the times before Panem's birth" – but they did not refer to any other outside influences.

"The United Kingdom," says Seneca, letting the name sit on his tongue. "Fascinating."

If Quinn feels uncomfortable, he doesn't let it show. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Designer?"

Seneca waits for a little bit, his brows furrowed, but he shakes his head. "No… thank you," he adds, still uncomfortable to having to be so gracious. "But… you've opened my mind to a whole world, now. It's interesting. I might have some more questions later."

"I don't know if I'll be able to answer them," says Quinn. "I'll try."

"Why? Are you regulated and contracted against such a thing?" Perhaps Coin had Quinn signed under a vow of some sort.

"No," says Quinn. "But the United Kingdom and other nations overseas do not want to interfere with Panem. I was lucky to have been able to come."

"Other nations? There are more?"

"Yes, Designer."

Seneca waits, but Quinn is clearly finished speaking. He decides he won't ask more – he is fortunate enough to even learn as much as he had. "One more question," he says daringly after a moment. "Why have you allowed yourself to tell me all of this?"

No emotions show on Quinn's face. "Given your capabilities and the fact that you are now working for the rebels," he tells Seneca, "I can trust you."

"Would you consider yourself naive?" Seneca asks.

"Yes." Quinn says this immediately, shrugging. "To a fault."

Now, Seneca feels guilty. His guide is maybe around Katniss's and Peeta's ages and has none of her intense paranoia and distrust. The foreign words come to his lips again, but somehow it's easier to say them this time. "Thank you," says Seneca.

Quinn nods and, without looking back, strides away.

Seneca turns to the tray he'd placed on the side table by the door and picks up a small bottle of the iris color changing solution. He decides to use it today and heads to the bathroom – very plain and white, greatly resembling the sterile hallway he'd walked through earlier – and stands in front of the mirror.

He can hardly recognize himself, Seneca notices. The only telltale sign of his previous identity is the intense, nearly unearthly blue of his eyes, and even now, he still looks like a completely different person. They had injected him with the Capitol's own stubble hair prevention substance for his face; Seneca runs a hand over a smooth cheek and frowns ever so slightly. He misses his intricately designed beard, but who is he to complain about that when his life was saved in return?

His hair is also much shorter than he is used to. He remembers waking up in the mornings in his penthouse with bangs hanging over his eyes haphazardly, and he remembers having to carefully and painstakingly go through the effort of parting his hair right down the middle of his head. Now, his hair is short and unruly, and if he is honest with himself, he knows he can wake up every morning and not even bother taming his hair because of how messy it already is after having been groomed.

And now his eyes – the last true distinguishing characteristic of his appearance – have to be disguised as well. Seneca reads the instructions on the bottle and tilts his head back to allow the solution to drip into his eye.

It is a tedious task. He's never done this before – everything was always done for him, and he finds that he prefers it that way. But, after twenty minutes of staring up at the bottle and trying to keep his eyes open to allow one full droplet onto each iris, he's done, and he looks back at his reflection in the plain, rectangular mirror in front of him.

His eyes are grey and cool. While his natural color might have been intimidating, this new color is absolutely cruel and disconnected from any sort of human likeness. He can see no emotion flit through his features except for mild irritation and annoyance. His eyes are like Coin's eyes. Not like those of Katniss's, which are passionate, emotive, expressive –

Seneca shakes his head and puts the small bottle of the solution down, blinking rapidly to allow the cold liquid drops to settle.

From the other room, he hears a quiet beeping go off, and he wonders if that is a phone. He abandons his tray of optical solutions and moves toward the touch screen portion of his desk, seeing the image of Haymitch on the surface. Once Seneca places his hand on the desk, the beeping quickly fades away, and Haymitch's voice sounds as though he is all around him.

"Designer Crons, huh?" is the first thing the victor says. His voice is rather snide but Seneca doesn't pay any mind.

"Hello, Haymitch."

Haymitch mutters inaudibly for a moment, but after a second, he says, "Heavensbee wants to see how you're faring."

"Is there any reason he couldn't call me himself?"

"Unthankful ass."

"I appreciate that," says Seneca pleasantly.

Haymitch ignores him and says, "He's a busy man, _Crons._ He doesn't have time to make house calls. You of all people should know how much his job requires of him."

It is a stab at Seneca that shouldn't hurt, but it does, and he doesn't reply to Haymitch for a second or two. He gets over it relatively quickly. "I'm doing just fine," he says.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Have you met her?"

Coin. "Yes."

"Word of advice, Crons," says Haymitch, and there is the distinct pop of a corked bottle in the background before Haymitch takes some time to swig some alcohol down. "Don't forget to do what she wants. Don't go with your gut instinct. Don't go with your _sentimental _streak."

Seneca understands his meaning just fine. He had been rescued from one president already as a result of his "sentimentality." He is not going to act in anyway that will cause his new president to order his execution as well.

"Noted."

"Yeah, you better have noted it," says Haymitch over the connection. "I'm not saving your sorry hide from dying again." He pauses, as though the insults have worn him out, before adding, "Take care of my Mockingjay, Crons."

Seneca doesn't reply and lets the line go dead. Instead, he takes a look at the time on the desk and sees that the day has indeed flown away, regardless of the beautiful sunrise the glass window is showing to him. There is a small beep from the desk once more, and then the same contented female voice from the morning speaks up the same way Haymitch's had only minutes earlier.

"Your appointments for tomorrow are as follows," says the voice. "At 10 00 hours, you are scheduled to meet with Victor Katniss Everdeen's 75th Annual Hunger Games Design Crew within Building C, office 12A. At 15 00 hours, you are scheduled to meet with President Coin within Building A, office 1. At 20 00 hours, you are scheduled to meet with Victor Peeta Mellark within District 12, Justice Building, room 104. Would you like to repeat your appointments?"

Confused as to why he must meet with one of District Twelve's victors, he almost misses the female voice's question. He declines and the voice bids him good night, leaving the desk's blue glow to slowly fade down to black.

He processes the last appointment with pursed lips, heading to the restroom to get ready for sleep. Why in Panem is he supposed to meet Peeta Mellark? Either Plutarch wants Seneca to get killed for stepping foot into District Twelve, or he wants Peeta and Seneca to come up with a way to help Katniss on their own. In Seneca's honest opinion, both options seem very viable.

It is several minutes until Seneca manages to settle into his bed, which is a suitable one compared to his plush, luxurious mattress back in the Capitol. And, with one more grateful thought toward the luck of still keeping his life, he shuts his grey eyes and dreams of mockingjays.

* * *

**I hope you guys liked it! I also hope it's alright that I'm incorporating the rest of the world in this story, as well (as demonstrated by Quinn Diamond). If you can, review please. I know this chapter was slow but they'll start to pick up in pace. Thanks!**


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